Francis: The Pope Who Broke the Script

 

In a world growing harsher by the day, where the voices of hatred, fanaticism, and blind authority grow louder, the death of Pope Francis feels like saying goodbye to a kind man in a time that shows no mercy to kindness.

The Catholic Church, led by the Vatican, is one of the oldest power structures in the world—and among the most closed and conservative. A state no bigger than a small neighborhood, yet armed with symbolism, authority, and gold that make it feel like a hereditary religious empire. A visit to the Vatican Museums reveals a legacy built on centuries of looting and exploitation in the name of faith, with a clerical elite that resembles ruling aristocracies far more than it does humble monks.

In that context, the selection of Pope Francis in 2013 felt like an attempt to present a new face—one relatively different—to a world teeming with protest and rebellion. A man from Latin America, of modest origins, with a human tone and features that felt close to the people. The world was still under the influence of massive waves of change: from the Arab Spring to Occupy Wall Street, and student movements in Chile, Spain, and Brazil. It seemed the Church, if only for PR purposes, wanted a pope who could match the moment.

But the surprise was that he wasn’t just a soft-talking figurehead. From day one, Francis chose to fight from within. He abandoned the papal palace, drove a simple car, wore plain clothes, and began opening files no one before him dared touch: financial corruption in the Vatican, collusion with regimes, sexual abuse scandals involving children, and the Church’s long-standing silence around such crimes.

Francis also didn’t hesitate to declare his clear alignment with the poor, the marginalized, and migrants. He spoke openly about Palestine, about refugee rights, about the climate crisis, and about economic justice. He reached out to Muslims and people of other faiths and refused to invoke the old language of “Catholic supremacy” inthat had long dominated the Church.

He wasn’t a revolutionary in the full sense of the word—but he tried. He tried to reform from within, to restore a bit of the Church’s original spirit, before it was swallowed by power, gold, and hierarchy. In the rigid and deeply entrenched structure of the Vatican, his efforts bordered on a small miracle.

But times changed. The revolutions were crushed. The far-right emerged from the shadows. The world returned to its old conflicts—more brutal, more vulgar. The voice of Pope Francis became increasingly marginal in a world that cheers for dictators, turns a blind eye to slaughter, and fears the “other.” In this era, Francis appeared to be one of the last dreamers.

His passing is not just the loss of the head of the Catholic Church—it marks the symbolic end of an era. A man who tried to bring faith closer to humanity, instead of using it to dominate humans. A man who earned the respect of many outside the Catholic fold, who listened to him and saw in him a different face of belief… is gone.

Francis was a religious leader who resembled us—our poverty, our exhaustion, our questions. He never claimed to possess the ultimate truth. He never hid behind the title of “His Holiness.” His departure is painful because it reminds us how rare the kind-hearted are, and how those who attempt reform within institutions riddled with decay and corruption are often defeated.

And yet, despite it all, he tried. And he will remain in memory—not as a ruler on a holy throne, but as a human being who wore the crown without taking off his heart.